


Compassion

by Grinner_H



Series: Love Is... [12]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H





	Compassion

Sometimes, he doesn't sleep for _days._

He'd wander around the long corridors of the mansion, drift in and out of rooms - this pale, pale thing; dressed in clothes which hang too loosely, bony fingers curled around cigarettes he smokes too damn much, doesn't smoke enough at all. 

\--

Sometimes, he'd play the same song over and over and over, till its melody uninvitingly inks itself into your memory.

He'd sit hunched over the grand piano in the living room, alabaster fingers dancing over black and white keys so fluidly - the way you'd seen Gokudera Hayato play once, just _once._

It's a melancholic tune, might have been _beautiful_ before. Now it's just _sad._

\--

Sometimes, he talks to himself as if he isn't the only one in the room. The conversations are always so _lonely_ \- _random_ things, like entries in a secret journal. _Private_ things you know you shouldn't be listening to.

You listen anyway.

\--

Sometimes, he curls up on the couch, like he's trying to shield himself from something, keep something out.

He stares out at nothing, eyes so much like flat mirrors, you're certain you can see your reflection in them. 

Only, your hair's longer, your skin's darker, and there's an ugly brown scar running down your left cheek.

And your eyes - the ones which are staring back at you with scorching intensity - are blood red, and you realize it _isn't_ your reflection at all.

\--

Sometimes, he fights.

Screaming matches in the hallways every time Dino offers something - _advice, comfort, love_ \- well-intentioned. 

Sometimes, you wonder why Dino doesn't just give up.

\-- 

Sometimes, you find him in his bedroom, videos on repeat, staring at photos like he's hoping they'd come alive.

It's times like these, he's at his most vulnerable. He just _lies_ there, looking like he's agonizingly _desperate,_ looking so _fragile._

You're afraid to touch him, afraid he'd fall to pieces beneath the brush of your fingertips.

\--

And sometimes, he cries.

Nothing _loud_ or _obvious,_ just damp pillows and damp sleeves.

You often wonder if he ever _sees_ you - if he ever notices you're there. He _should,_ and he probably _does;_ his mind - no, his _heart_ \- is just too damn _fucked up_ to acknowledge your presence.

Like this moment - standing in the living room doorway, watching him sit at the piano, hands resting on the keys, unmoving.

He's got his back to you, but you can _tell_ that he's crying - evident in the slight movements of his shoulders, the quiet hitch of his breath.

 _So,_ you think, _this is what **grief** is like._

You've seen it before - Dino's worn it well those eight months, _still_ wears it for the one he never got to mourn properly. You decide that you really, _really_ don't like it.

So you take a step forward - just _one;_ not close enough to reach him, but it's _enough_ \- and say, "Hey."

You watch his entire frame go still, as if in shock. Maybe he _didn't_ know you were there, after all. His right hand reaches up, undoubtedly scrubbing at his face, before he turns to look at you. His very countenance is blank like immaculate glass, his eyes are red and turbulent with all the wrong emotions.

Your fingers curl into fists - hidden from view in your pockets. It is imperative you betray no emotion in his presence, after all. "Fight me."

He stares at you for a long moment, as if searching for some answer to an unasked question. And then, he nods. "Okay."


End file.
